Tit for Tat
by KissTheBoy7
Summary: Anatoly flips the board and regrets it immediately. Freddie is willing to take the fall - for a favor. Kings. Anatoly/Freddie. Explicit. Oneshot.


**A/N: Written on commission for an anonymous buddy over on tumblr. You, too, can commission me if you like by following this link. Prompt: rough Kings sex with Freddie topping. I had a lot of fun writing this, actually. Enjoy!**

**Tit for Tat**

He knows, he knows, he _knows_ he shouldn't have done it a fraction of a second after the pieces are already flying, clattering onto the floor and rolling away.

Both of them are on their feet. He's not entirely sure which of them jumped first.

There are exactly two heartbeats of deafening silence.

Anatoly swallows, staring at the upturned board rather than looking at Trumper's face.

The room _explodes._

He'd thought many times in the past that he'd learned to overcome sensory overload like this, but nothing could compare to the tension surrounding Freddie Trumper. He should have known this would happen, when he'd learned he'd be facing him. He should have been more prepared for something like this.

Molokov had run him through the possibilities the night before, just to be sure. All careful, calculating eyes. Anatoly had consumed probably half a bottle of wine out of nerves.

He still can't look at Trumper. He doesn't want to know what kind of expression must be on his face. For that first fraction of a second, when every repressed thread had surged upwards angrily and so had his fists, he'd caught a glimpse of something like _wonder_.

But Trumper wasn't someone who would let him get away with such a public display of temper. And Trumper _knew_ it had been him to flip the board. He had to.

At the very least, that had killed his unwanted erection.

God, if he could have just – if _Trumper_ had just –

There was no use in panicking about it now. (Not that that would stop him.) He elbows his way through the press of the reporters and the shouting fans, and escapes.

He needs to talk to Trumper.

* * *

The other half of the bottle is almost gone, and Anatoly doesn't feel any better. His skin is still tingling uncomfortably the way it had started the second he felt Trumper's eyes light on him across the board, and he's beginning to think that he's not going to show.

If he can't convince Trumper to take the fall for this, his career is going to be in ruins by noon tomorrow.

He's nursing a glass and peering anxiously out the window, wishing he could at least enjoy the spectacular view, when Trumper comes strolling in like he owns the place – hands in his pockets, smirking and playful. He comes right up and nudges him cheekily with one elbow, and Anatoly leans away, blinking rapidly and trying to remember what the socially correct response to something so – so forward, might be.

"Er," he offers, quite succinctly. He's starting to feel lightheaded, and reluctantly puts the glass down on the window ledge.

"I walked," Trumper explained, although he hadn't asked. His tone is perfectly cheerful, but there's a glint in his eye that makes Anatoly uneasy at best. "Cable cars, not my favorite. So!" He claps his hands together and rubs them dramatically. "Let's get down to business, shall we? What's your first bid?"

"Er," Anatoly says a little more desperately, knuckles curling around the window ledge. He can't – seem to find the words for what he was supposed to be asking for, and what was that again? Trumper is an evil, distracting man. "Bid?"

"You want me to let them think it was me." He shrugs, as though careless. Anatoly has spent years of his life painstakingly learning body language with Molokov as his guide – he doesn't think that Trumper does anything carelessly. He always calculates the risk before doing something monumentally absurd. "I want recompense."

"What – what do you want? I mean." The Russian swallows, reaching up to tug anxiously at his tie. He wishes that his hands would stay still for once. "What. I will give it to you, anything…"

His English is failing him, damn it all. He should be begging but he's sure that Trumper must be able to read the need in his voice, or his face, or something. Something! Trumper was observant, wasn't he? He could tell, could definitely tell that Anatoly was in a tight spot, that he needed this. Needed, not wanted. He was at his mercy.

Gooseflesh erupts on his arms at the thought that Trumper might enjoy having him at his mercy enough to draw it out.

Trumper is staring at him now, eyes dark and sharp and lips red and ready.

"The easiest thing to do," he suggests, in that gentle, coaxing voice he always uses with reporters just before he snaps. Anatoly tenses in anticipation. It's almost intoxicating, watching him. Waiting for him to pounce. "Would be to let me have my way with you now. You'd be free by morning, and no one would have to know."

"I don't follow," Anatoly rasps, because he didn't, but some of his body parts seemed to be several leagues ahead of his brain.

He shifts awkwardly, wondering if (but knowing, really) Trumper is following the slowly deepening crease at the front of his suit pants.

Trumper steps forward. Anatoly dies a little on the inside.

"Let me," he says, and reaches up to tug lightly at a single dark curl. He doesn't have to finish that sentence. He's made his next move abundantly clear. It's up to Anatoly to counter it.

He sucks in a shaky breath.

"Okay." And releases it. Shuddering.

It really should be embarrassing, because he can see his own reflection in the mirror over the bureau and he's already gone and lost his composure. His cheeks are flushed – Lord, his entire face is flushed, all down his neck and at the tips of his ears, and Trumper has him backed into a wall in four seconds flat and he can see his own expression, and he _knows_ that Trumper knows, that this is what he's been daydreaming about for at least a week.

Trumper's fingers are warm and pushing his shirt up hintingly, the smirk on his lips hovering too-close to Anatoly's neck.

"Good," he breathes, deliberately, and then spins him around and shoves him hard against the wall again, pressed all up against his back.

Their hips line up rather perfectly.

He really wishes that he could watch this in the mirror. He has a feeling that if he asks, Trumper will gladly give that to him, but talking right now might break the spell as thoroughly as a reminder of his wife.

Trumper, clearly, isn't thinking about his wife. He holds Anatoly's hips in bruising vices of hands, slowly grinding up, clothed, to let him feel him hard through both of their pants.

Trumper is wearing jeans. Anatoly finds that obscenely, unfairly attractive, and when he finds his breath he's going to tell him so. Just – as soon – as he – oh, hell…

How is he supposed to remember that he has a wife back in Russia when here, in Merano, there's this gorgeous American man and his nimble, clever fingers and the shape of his _cock_ and the sound of his zipper opening, which is more than enough by itself to get him gagging for it.

Anatoly has a bit of an infidelity problem. Trumper is not the first symptom of this.

He's got his fists clenched up against the wall by his head, his cheek to the ornate wallpaper. Trumper's breath comes in hot puffs against his cheek, smugly, because everything this man ever does is smug or delighted or both.

Trumper's thumb slides up the inside of his thigh. He bites his lip to contain a whimper.

"If you keep holding out on me, I'm going to have to think up something else I want." Trumper grumbles, hips jerking in frustration. The resulting friction is enough to make him want to thrash. "_Talk._"

Instead, Anatoly starts and twists to check that it was actually Trumper talking to him. He doesn't remember that commanding tone in his voice before – demanding, maybe, but not like this. His pants are starting to get really, really inconveniently painful, hips straining back against Trumper's. "I – what about?" he asks weakly, and isn't entirely sure that it comes out in English.

If it doesn't, Trumper still seems to get the gist of it. "Tell me you want it," he mutters, low and hot and dark and hands starting to tug at the fastenings of his pants. Anatoly gasps and arches, groaning, reaching down to help him.

"Fuck – if I did not want it, Trumper, I would not be standing here letting you –"

"Do you want me to fuck you, or do you want me to _fuck you_?" Trumper demands, and then adds forcefully. "Freddie." He reaches down to pry his thighs apart with those same bruising fingers.

"Fuck," Anatoly groans, very eloquently, and then, "Freddie. Fuck me."

It's not really that hard to give up his dignity when he knows he's going to get a good fuck out of it. And Trumper doesn't look like he's ever disappointed anyone in bed, or against a wall. Not with that mouth.

He shoves him harder up against the wall and Anatoly grits his teeth and moans through them. He bucks back, because the bruises he's going to have tomorrow really can't compare to the tantalizing idea of Trumper's – Freddie's – cock so deep in him he can't think straight. Several parts of him are starting to hope that he's limping tomorrow, and damn the press.

"Please," he says shortly, banging his forehead against the wall in mild (but growing) frustration. He's completely forgotten about the board. This sort of desperation is infinitely preferable, anyways. "Tr – Freddie, for the love of God, just –"

There's a hand around his cock and he chokes on what might have been the rest of that sentence, scrabbling at the wall for purchase.

This would be a terrible time for his hands to regain their sentience.

Luckily, Freddie doesn't give him a chance to make this awkward. He growls into his ear, "You have five seconds. Brace yourself."

Anatoly knows what's good for him. He braces himself, and pushes futilely back toward his cock again, hissing as it brushes up between his legs. He's so close, _so _close, if Freddie would just grab his hips like he was doing earlier and _thrust_ –

"Five." Freddie is smirking when he turns him around, and Anatoly nearly trips and falls flat on his face, suit pants tangled around his ankles. Cursing, he lets his opponent shove him toward the bed, kicking them off all the while. He's got his shirt mostly unbuttoned by the time Freddie is on him again, and he goes down without a fight, wrists twitching briefly in excitement beneath Freddie's hands.

His fingers are so slender and wickedly graceful. Anatoly would really rather they were up his ass as far as he could take them, right now.

Freddie grins, all sharp edges and steely eyes. His grip is starting to get painful. "Hope you don't mind if I don't waste any more time on foreplay." At some point he must have lost his shirt, and Anatoly can't stop staring at his nipples, wishing – achingly, throbbing with need – that he could reach out and rub them with his thumbs, or suck them into his mouth, and God he really needs to stop thinking about this right now because Freddie is leaning over him and his fingers are working less than patiently up into him, and all Anatoly can do with both wrists held up above his head is writhe and _groan_.

This, this is definitely not what he'd invited Trumper up here for, but he'd be lying if he said it hadn't even crossed his mind.

The chess doesn't occur to him at all. He won't think of it again, seriously, until the morning when it all sinks in.

Freddie looks like he'd love to be sinking into him right now. Anatoly writhes, so he presses his thumb into his wrist harder and his fingers curve between his legs brutally, no warning at all, and Anatoly yelps something absolutely obscene in Russian.

"That's more like it," Freddie sneers. He kneels up on the bed between Anatoly's legs, sparing no admiration for the plushness of the comforter beneath them, and pushes him down against the bed by his throat while his fingers drive up between his legs, jabbing and twisting and spreading him without mercy. "Ready to beg, red?"

"Is that – _ah_ – a part, a part of, of, _oh_," he groans, his own voice echoing from every corner of the room, and he has just enough time to find it in him to be humiliated before Freddie is smirking and manhandling him again, this time turning him onto his stomach, He grips the sheets in his fists not a moment too soon.

"Mmmh, I knew you'd be like this," Freddie hisses, sounding absurdly pleased with himself as his cock slides up tight inside him like it belongs there. Anatoly feels his spine arch, his muscles clench, but there's nothing, nothing he can do. He mumbles something deliriously back at him, hips giving aborted little thrusts, something about a victory dance and Trumper's superiority complex, and Freddie just laughs and slams forward so hard the headboard cracks against he wall.

They've barely started and Anatoly already has a feeling that he's going to be paying for more than some chipped plaster.

"Fuck, oh fuck," he babbles, voice high and thin and reedy. He's scrabbling at the sheets and Freddie is smacking a hand down over his shoulder, reminding him to stay down and stay put and to yell as loud as he fucking wants. "Tr- Freddie – ah, no, not – yes!"

He'd also be lying if he said he was opposed to a little bit of pain. Or a lot. Trumper could decide which he preferred – they both knew, already, that "no pain" was hardly an option when it came to sex between the two of them.

Freddie is, frankly, massive compared to the men he's been with. He doesn't rock into him, he shoves, and their skin slaps together red and stinging and brilliant. Anatoly fights back a truly embarrassing whimper and struggles just to meet him thrust for thrust, his jaw sagging, his eyes squeezed shut to better focus on the absolute thrill of adrenaline coursing through him with every jolting heartbeat.

"Ah –" he starts to gasp, and Freddie wraps a hand around the back of his neck this time, shoving his face into the pillow. "Mmph!" He groans instead, muffled approval, newly-freed hands shooting up to cling to the headboard for dear life.

"Mm, good idea," Freddie pants, dragging him up onto his knees by his bruised hips. He rubs the slick, angry head of his cock back against his hole and Anatoly shudders, unable to look back and comprehend the sight of it. His imagination is running rampant in a way that he hasn't allowed it to for years, since long before he'd earned his way to the top of his profession. "Hold on tight, red."

It's not affectionate, but Anatoly feels a rush of warmth anyways. He nods tightly; despite all his tensing, he still has to grit his teeth against a gasp when Freddie smacks an open palm to the back of his thigh, hips bucking again. His erection is weeping, neglected, just barely grazing the comforter, and he has the wild urge to reach down and just start pulling, breathless and hard as he already is.

But Freddie would probably not approve, and Freddie is the one nudging his cock up against his prostate right now with that calculating look, squeezing the back of his neck when he whines, slapping his hips down against him.

He can't take it much longer. It's embarrassing, but this is – an exceptional circumstance. Trumper is an exceptional man. Anatoly dazedly, desperately pushes back against him, lets himself be shoved back down again and again, bruises aching and lips bloody and bitten, his neck covered in the marks of Freddie's wet, possessive mouth…

"God, I want you," Trumper groans, and "Yeah, you want this, you fucking want this, don't you, tell me, _louder_…"

Anatoly is inclined to indulge him. His throat is going to be raw from all the screaming he's doing. His thighs are trembling with the strain.

Every time his hips hitch, sometimes violently with the force of Freddie's erratic thrusts, his cock rubs up between his stomach and the comforter and Freddie's hands are so hot and slippery on his thighs and his cock is so fucking deep in him and driving deeper, seemingly, with every thrust, and he can't, he can't, he's going to, and Trumper is going to, _oh, fuck_ –

"Aw, what would your wife say, Tolya?" he hears Trumper sneer at him when he comes, but considering that Anatoly is mostly sure that he's just screamed Trumper's name for all the world to hear, he really doesn't have a whole lot to complain about.

He doesn't let up – he seems to like the way Anatoly winces and whines, overstimulated and still helplessly pushing back for the friction – until he's seized up and his nose is buried in Anatoly's neck, swearing loudly, moaning, and that makes Anatoly jerk a second time.

"Oh, God," he whimpers when he's finally released, slumping forward and narrowly avoiding his own guilty stain. "Trumper."

Freddie is collapsed beside him, radiating smugness, arms folded behind his head. He stares at the ceiling and watches the dying light play across it for a long moment, full of labored breaths and slowing heartbeats.

Anatoly's nervous hands begin their dance again, pulling at his hair and at the comforter and smoothing at his own skin at random intervals. He's used to it. He doubts Trumper is, but he doesn't look phased by it, anyway.

Not that he can find it in him to be self-conscious right now, anyway.

"Er," he mumbles, sure that he'd had a thought that was actually leading somewhere, but Freddie is already lifting his hips and pulling his pants back up from around his knees beside him. "Trumper…"

"That's my name, don't wear it out," Freddie said lightly. Anatoly didn't think he'd ever unhear that dangerous, beautiful edge to it, though. Not after an orgasm like that.

"You – you will not deny it, then, if the reporters…"

"I never intended to deny it. But this was fun." At Anatoly's scandalized look, Freddie gets up and winks. He runs his fingers through his sex-rumpled hair with practiced ease, smoothing out the wrinkles in his shirt at the same time. "We should do it again sometime."

_If by sometime, you mean every night._ Anatoly swallows down the bitter knowledge that he already has a bed partner to share the rest of his nights with.

He would trade her for Trumper in a heartbeat.

"Perhaps tomorrow," he manages, and Freddie gives him a slow, lazy smirk as he slips out the door. "If you are recovered, by then." It's the weakest jab in the world. Freddie is five years younger than him, at least, and if his grin is anything to go by he's got formidable stamina even for a man his age.

Still. He desperately, pathetically hopes that he says yes.

"We'll see how the match goes."

Abruptly, Anatoly remembers that he plays chess for a living. His career is on the line. Trumper is playing with him.

He watches the cable cars come and go through the window, and realizes that he doesn't actually mind.


End file.
